Juncture
by Merida's Hair
Summary: "It's then that Pete speaks, looking up from under his blankets and from a laptop. "Why aren't you affected?" He asks. It's only spoken with morbid curiosity, only that. Helena, the woman who refuses to let go of this world no matter how much it has hurt her, still hasn't received her newest death sentence. She feels guilt gnawing at her from the inside out." Post 4x10.
1. Twenty-Four

**A/N: Cover photo is a screencap by mizzzcreencaps at tumblr**

_twenty-four hours_

Helena sees the newspaper article on the way to the address given to her by Myka via Farnsworth.

_Strange Sickness Resembling that of "English Sweating Sickness" Spreads, Unknown if Pathogen is Air-born._

Seeing Myka's face, albeit on Farnsworth, instantly uplifted her day. A day that had started to blend with the others; filled with every person on earth it seemed except those she wished to see, and not trusting any of them. But any happiness she felt vanished with the expression on Myka's face: Uncontrolled panic, stricken, and filled with sadness. Thoughts of Mrs. Frederick warning her vanished as she immediately bombarded Myka with questions.

_Darling, are you alright? Is the Warehouse-_

First.

_Leena's dead. Artie may be dying. Nothing's okay HG. Nothing's okay._

The clock struck, marking an hour.


	2. Twenty-Two

_twenty-two hours_

The astrolabe might as well have been made of flesh and bone for all the damage it's caused. (And for all that it's repaired, brought, given as well). Helena gently holds it in both hands, her skin barred from touching the metal by a pair of purple gloves. A downside has never been so worth it, perhaps, and yet so not. What was preferred, a world without hope or a world losing it minute by minute?

She had gotten to them within the next two hours, but the sickness had already taken hold. Nothing had haunted her more than the first layer of sweat on Myka's brow, the numbed expression in Claudia's eyes, Artie only breathing every few seconds. Pete looking at her like a frightened child in the middle of a thunderstorm, and still slightly looking at her now like so.

Claudia had been the first to go under. Artie, still bleeding beside her, is out too. She checks his bandages every twenty minutes. Myka, oh her lovely Myka. (Was she even hers now? She tries to remember their last conversation, their last kiss. Was it imbued with contempt or affection?) She holds her hand firmly, but delicately. Its warm. Too warm. And wet, too wet. She rubs the inside of her hand, willing those eyes to open. She's breathing so heavily that it's caused Helena to nearly stop. Steve had gone out just after Myka, his body wracked with chills. An untouched mug of tea she'd gotten him resides on the side table. Pete had just begun to get cold shivers only twenty minutes ago, the panic evident in his eyes as he realized what had happened.

It's then that Pete speaks, looking up from under his blankets and from a laptop. "Why aren't you affected?" He asks. It's only spoken with morbid curiosity, only that. Helena, the woman who refuses to let go of this world no matter how much it has hurt her, still hasn't received her newest death sentence. She feels guilt gnawing at her from the inside out.

She takes a deep breath. "I don't know, but research regarding the English Sweating Sickness tells that the disease was highly contagious, and spread rapidly. Perhaps I just haven't shown the symptoms yet, although it's supposed to work rather quickly."

He manages a quirk of a smile. "If you get it HG, we'd be not just really screwed, but really really _really_ screwed. After all, I've just been decreed non-mobile by my wobbly legs." He holds her gaze. "So drink lots of water, alright? Myka'd be telling you the same thing."

Helena nods and looks at her again. Her fingertips raise to lightly touch her cheek. They come back with the newest layer of sweat. She looks back at Pete, abhors how broken, how desperate she must look.

"She'll wake up." He nods, wrapping his blankets tighter around himself. "In no time at all. Meanwhile, we'd best get cracking on you know, saving the world again I wonder when this'll become a 'oh just another tuesday' type of deal. Maybe it already is." He looks like he's physically willing the joke out of his voice. "Let's call Mrs. Frederick. After all we've got nothing."

"Righty-Ho, then." The words feel sour in her mouth, overused and out of place.


	3. Interlude: Years

_Interlude: Years_

A couple of teenage boys got their hands on what they called "Aladdin's magic carpet" (even though it was never owned by anyone called Aladdin, nor was it ever part of the original story.) Even so the carpet had flying capabilities, the boys used this new ability to throw eggs at their neighbors through their windows, and when they were caught handed the carpet over with guilty expressions and fearful looks towards Myka's secret service badge.

Considering the case took a day shorter than was expected, nearly an entire day was left for the choosing. And Helena, having passed a rather beautiful and pristine lake many times throughout the day, already had gears turning in her head as she left a note for Myka: _Don't be worried Darling, I shall only be gone a few hours. Will you meet me at the lake around the corner around 7:30?_

A part of Helena wishes she could have seen Myka read the letter. Perhaps she should have asked her face to face? But there were preparations to be done, and Helena already had few resources to work from. Already doubt poured in, as well as a thousand reasons she shouldn't do this. And Helena hardly had room in the complexities of her life for selfishness, but perhaps for moment she could believe in that storybook notion of true love. A kind that beckons children to wish on stars and grown adults to pretend they don't do the same. If it was true love (and it was, there was no question about it, Myka Bering had consumed the expanses of her heart completely), how could it truly be selfish?

She wrestled with her heart as she made her preparations, and even as she waits by the swaying docks that night at exactly 7:30.

The waters are calm. Helena rus her nervous palms together and closes her eyes. She hadn't been this nervous in so long she'd forgotten the feeling of it. She always remained a calm poise those hundred years ago in the presence of a potential lover, nervousness was for the giddy young girl just wearing a corset for the first time. It was for the dimwitted and easily pushed over and Helena had no use for it. But this is different, oh so different.

"Helena."

"Yes?"

_"Exactly_ why is the Artifact you said you'd 'taken care of' sitting right next you?"

And there she is, dressed in her work clothes but so irrevocably herself that Helena felt her breath taken away. This was _Myka._ Her friend. (Perhaps more? Hopefully more). The light from the lamp pole strikes her so that gold reflected off her dark brown curls. And she looks vaguely confused and irritated. (Not particularly the look she sought, but a small smirk and smile overcame her own face just the same).

_"That_ is a reason I've asked you to come here, Agent Bering." She says, inching towards her.

"And why _have _you asked me to come here?" Myka's eyes are accusatory, making Helena flash back to every moment she'd rebuked affection and seen hurt in Myka's eyes and every opposite moment; laughter and heartfelt looks and small touches at the dinner table. Helena makes up her mind, and the playful smirk leaves her face.

"I…perhaps I should have made my intentions clear earlier. If you'd permit it, Myka, I'd like this to perhaps be a...date?" (The 21st century phrase still feels strange coming out of her mouth; she stills feels like a living and breathing time machine).

Myka's eyes light up, and a smile (she has such a lovely smile) spreads across her cheeks. She steps close to Helena, reaches down for Helena's hands and rubs the inside of her wrists. Helena's breath catches, and she looks up, finding her eyes so warm. But hesitant, still slightly.

"Yeah I'd…like that, Helena. A lot, in fact. I've been meaning to-wait." She pauses, eyes flashing towards the magic carpet again.

"Explain that first, _Agent Wells_." She steps away again, arms across her chest, although this time she's more teasing than irritated. The smirk returns to Helena's features.

"I tried to rent a boat for us to have dinner on the lake. However they were all sold out by the time I got the booth, so I…..improvised. After all nothing is more romantic than an evening spent under the clear night's stars." Helena grabs the carpet with a flourish, and then carefully rolls it out. The carpet hovers slightly above the grassy grounds.

Myka blinks at her, but then shakes her head and laughs.

"You really think out of the box, don't you?"

"Darling, there was never a box to begin with."


	4. Twenty-One

_twenty-one hours_

Restless was an understated word for the feelings in both Helena and Pete an hour into their research. The archives had only provided them with the Plague Doctor's Mask which only succeeded in _preventing_ disease, not curing. Claudia woke up once in a panic, screaming that someone was chasing after her. It had taken many soothing words and a song Helena used to sing to Christina in the midst of night terrors to coax the girl back to sleep. Myka remained frightfully still.

A sheen of sweat had broken out on Pete's face. He didn't have very much longer, and then Helena would be alone with the fallen. And she was still chills free, healthy, but far from alright.

"What did Mrs. Frederick say again?" Pete asks. He's watching the news channel on the television.

"She said she'd call soon with more information, for us to keep looking. What do news reporters say?" Helena doesn't look up from her screen, the different Artifacts and their properties scrolling down it rapidly. _No. No. No._ Nothing.

"Nothing good. People are dropping like flies. Like fifty kids didn't show up at the local school around here. We _all _got whammied, HG. Big time. And I could have…" He shakes his head.

_"No _Pete. You couldn't have." She gives him a meaningful look. They both know that nothing could be done, not with the facts being what they are, and how events turned out. Experience showed that blaming each other and blaming _themselves_ generally got them nowhere. Even if, privately, it could't be helped.

"Look….maybe you should just get out there, start the hunt." She gives him an incredulous look.

"Hunt for _what_, Peter?" He shrugs, although anxiously.

"I don't know! Anything. Something."

She narrows her eyes.

He looks at her then, very seriously. More seriously than she'd ever seen him. He doesn't say anything and she supposes she should feel guilty for snapping at him.

She stops her scrolling and looks at her list of Artifacts. And there's the hard truth of herself, staring her in the face. That those events _had _led to now, these moments of finality. Where Helena is merely an observer and is caught in Myka's still figure and shining forehead. She who knows well that time never plays to the favor of those who live it. She has to make peace with the present and look ahead to every second to make sure they counted. The big picture was an open door, and Helena was standing in its doorway. She just had to look, _and look she would. _Anything was calling. HG Wells could always make something out of Anything.

Pete was looking back at the television.

The Farnsworth rang a moment later, and Helena snatched it up quickly. Mrs. Frederick's face filled the small screen.

"Miss Wells may we talk privately?" She nodded and slipped away into the adjoining room, locking the door behind her.

While Mrs. Frederick did not look frightened per say, there was a large degree of alarm in her eyes that drew the same feelings in Helena herself.

"I may have a few ideas for solutions, but we'll need to meet in person."

"Where?"

"The cafe around the corner from your hotel." Helena nods. "When?"

"One hour from now. But Miss Wells, I'd like to ask you something. Are you absolutely sure that you have no symptoms of the Sweating Sickness?"

"No. None at all."

Mrs. Frederick looks curiously at her, although with that same alarm. Suddenly a shadow overcomes her face, a gravity that speaks all the years she's lived and something beyond that was both chilling and haunting.

"I assume you still have the Astrolabe?"

"Yes, of course." Helena feels a clench in her stomach. She knows exactly what Mrs. Frederick is going to ask and knows that the Warehouse's trust of her only goes so far. And she' s thought about it, many times. The loophole, the simple solution, seemingly out of the box. But really, not at all. Not at all.

"Then I-"

"I would_ never_ use it. The world cannot be riskedmy darkness again." It's already strong enough, she knows, without the presence of an Artifact. A vengeful HG Wells must be kept in lockdown. A vengeful HG Wells means terror and destruction.

"That's not what I'm asking." Mrs. Frederick is looking at her gravely now. Almost pointedly.

"Arthur Nielson swore you would lay down your life for the Warehouse. Is this true?"

She looks at the face on the screen with an expression of vague wonder.

"Yes. Of course I would. In a heart beat." Of this Helena is most sure. For one of the few homes she'd ever had? For the path she took? Of course. For the family she'd started to to build, yes. Even if they didn't trust her yet. For all the work she's put in, all lost and gained, yes she would. She's laying down her loyalties again and will never again give them up for the sake of her own plight. Helena thinks about the Astrolabe in the other room, and then Mrs. Frederick words and feels her stomach begin to drop. An icy chill settles. Myka. She thinks of Myka. The big picture. She takes a big step through the doorway. This was one option she never truly considered, but it may be the only viable one they had left.

"If all else fails, Miss Wells. If all else fails."

"Like I said a moment ago, Mrs. Frederick_. The world cannot be risked my darkness again."_


End file.
